


A Question of Idiom

by recrudescence



Category: Inception
Genre: Autosodomy, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism, self-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is contemplating a job in Greenland. Arthur disapproves.</p><p>Inspired by a prompt from the kink meme: <i>Eames discovers that Arthur can do <a href="http://www.xtube.com/watch.php?v=DBdE5-G354-&cont=y">this</a> (vid is very NSFW) and he is simply amazed</i>. <b>Contains self-fucking/autosodomy.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Question of Idiom

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Bina for letting me know that the proper term for self-fucking is indeed autosodomy. :)

“It’s just a briefing where they try and pitch the thing to me,” Eames repeated, folding a pair of trousers into a duffel bag. “I’ll be back in less than forty-eight hours.”

Arthur said nothing, but the line of his shoulders and the set of his jaw were more than articulate enough.

“I haven’t actually told them I’m _accepting_ ,” Eames went on, trying to sound as earnest as possible without tipping Arthur’s neutral expression into a full-blown frown. “They’re having a hell of a time getting anyone to sign on with them for this one at all.”

“Because no one wants to carve out the next couple months to be stuck in _Greenland_.” Arthur couldn’t have pronounced the name with more distaste if it had actually soured on his tongue. He was also, Eames noted, frowning anyway. “I can’t believe you’re even thinking about it.”

“They desperately need another set of hands and they’re willing to pay a lot for them.”

“Right. And you’re so impoverished you just can’t say no. Where have you been hiding this boundless altruism?”

That was a little low. Eames considered himself plenty altruistic where Arthur was concerned. “I realize you have no interest in coming along, but if you did maybe they’d have use for you as well.”

“Martin,” Arthur answered, icy and logical, “always does point for Katia. Unlike some people, they have a system and they stick to it.”

Eames paused in the midst of rolling up a pair of socks. “Is _that_ what this is about?”

“I don’t know, did you just forget how we talked about working as a unit from here on out? Did I imagine that?” Arthur was glaring into the depths of his tea mug as if it had just gravely insulted the last three generations of his family. “It feels like it was just the other day, for some reason.”

“Listen, it’s just one last job.” Eames realized the instant he said it that he sounded frighteningly like Cobb, which meant Arthur had undoubtedly picked up on it too. “Besides,” he forced himself to sound jovial, “Katia’s a good leader; she’ll have this wrapped as soon as possible. I know you’re not used to working with an extractor who can actually build, but it’s amazing how efficient those people can be.”

“Katia and Martin are efficient because they work as a unit.” Arthur’s voice wrapped a little too darkly around the word. “Isn’t that interesting? I think it’s very interesting."

“Don’t you think you’re being—?”

“No,” Arthur interrupted, “don’t bother. Have a great time. I hope you love it, I really do. Make sure to tell me all about Greenland, okay?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Eames grumbled.

When he looked up again, Arthur had stalked off.

\---

Eames was in his hotel room when he eventually checked his mail. Katia and Martin had kept him on his toes with dinner and negotiations and laying out the groundwork for a venture that sounded like it could shape up to be a very interesting opportunity.

Minus the Greenland part, anyway.

Earlier, he had tried calling Arthur a couple times, but either Arthur had turned off his phone or was ignoring him on purpose.

Arthur had, however, apparently sent him an email over an hour ago. There were no words in the body of it aside from a download link and an all-caps command for Eames not to open the file under any circumstances unless he was alone and undisturbed.

The name of the file in question was famous_last_words.

Eames downloaded it.

“Hi,” said Arthur. His face filled the majority of the screen, but Eames could make out a flash of their bedroom wall behind him. “Just so you know, I’m not always very good at listening to people, but I try really hard with you.”

He moved back a little ways, enough for Eames to determine that he was sitting in the center of the bed and also not wearing a shirt. “So if I was kind of a dick before, I didn’t plan on it. But you really did deserve it.”

For a moment, he leaned offscreen. “Oh. And if you’re self-flagellating for being a thick-skulled moron…” He paused and leaned a little further, giving Eames a lovely HD view of the smooth stretch of skin over his ribs. If wasn’t as if Arthur was there to chastise him for being indulgent instead of indignant.

He did, however, look a little reproving when he righted himself, but that couldn’t be anything but a coincidence. “Yeah, if you’re feeling sorry for yourself, don’t worry about it.” His eyes were cast down at his hands and whatever it was he had been reaching for. Arthur flashed a glance at him through his lashes, less reproving and more dangerous now, more unidentifiable. “I’m happy for you.”

“Of course you are,” Eames muttered, turning to reach for his phone again. If Arthur wasn’t going to pick up, the least Eames could do was send a sufficiently apologetic text and wait for a reaction.

“I hope they pay you a lot,” Arthur continued from his iPad. “I hope it’s worth it. Did you know Greenland is the suicide capital of the world? Think of me when you’re eating nothing but fish and the occasional muskoxen burger, okay?”

He sounded strained in a way no man ever should when discussing suicide or muskoxen.

Eames looked up.

Arthur’s cheeks were a delicate pink. His nipples had tightened into hard peaks and there was something about the angle of his right shoulder, something about the bend of his elbow that Eames knew very well even if he couldn’t see it for himself.

He blinked. Everything fit, but it just didn’t make any sense for Arthur to be rubbing one out while giving Eames a passive-aggressive piece of his mind.

“So here’s something to think about in the meantime,” said Arthur, and he moved even further back on the bed.

“Fuck,” Eames murmured, forgetting Arthur couldn’t hear.

Arthur looked back at him, bare legs splayed and one hand still rhythmically slicking his cock. “Even though we said we weren’t going to do this anymore, I’m not angry. I’m a little annoyed and I’ll miss you if you say yes, but I’ll make do.”

Then he turned onto his stomach.

“Arthur,” whispered Eames, “Oh, Arthur.”

The Arthur onscreen settled against the mattress a bit more and spread his thighs, giving Eames a world-class view of his arse and then some. There was a glisten of wetness there, against the pink of his hole, like he’d eased himself open already.

Eames’s phone was still in his hand, but he had forgotten what in the world he was supposed to be doing with it.

Arthur, meanwhile, had reached down between his legs and seemed to have no problem at all keeping a level head. As Eames watched, he touched himself for a few moments, stroking the base of his erection with one hand while the other kneaded firmly at his balls. Then, moving so that one hand was cupped supportively around the other, he began easing one of them up along his perineum, higher and higher into the cleft between his cheeks, until Eames was staring openmouthed and battling a profound desire to cross his legs.

He would have been gaping for a different reason if Arthur had simply been easing a finger or two into his arse, but obviously Arthur had something else in mind. He was still touching himself, his balls flushed and firm in his hand, still keeping a firm hold as he eased one of them right up against the slick little entrance to his body. While Eames looked on in disbelief, Arthur’s thighs trembled infinitesimally and he pushed it inside himself.

The volume was decent enough that Eames could make out the sound of him groaning softly. Against all odds, Arthur didn’t sound pained, which gave him a leg up on Eames, who had abandoned his phone altogether because this was far more demanding of his undivided attention and surely Arthur wasn’t going to—

“No,” Eames breathed. “No, no, no, you bloody psychopath, what are you thinking. You can’t just—”

But he did. Slowly, inexorably as before, Arthur repeated the entire process. His arse tensed and the very top of his head, which had been visible before, dropped out of sight. It couldn’t have taken longer than twenty seconds for him to finish, both balls tucked inside himself, sighs still clearly audible but still not pained. The flush that had been visible only in his face before had spread, bright and patchy over the gorgeously smooth skin of his arse, the backs of his long graceful hands. Eames could picture the rest of him so well, the way his lips would be dry and his shoulders bent, the way each shuddering sigh would show off the sensitive dip between them that Eames loved to kiss.

 _Would_ kiss, along with every other part of Arthur, as soon as he physically could, as soon as he made sure Arthur wasn’t passed out from aggressive testicular mishandling in the middle of their bed.

The Arthur before him was working his cock, clearly slick and hard, but still he was somehow able to bend it—fuck, _how_ , Eames didn’t even want to consider—enough to do something that would have had Eames pressing his thighs together in distress if he could just remember how to _move_.

Arthur kept his hands steady as the head of his cock pressed for entry, straining and red at the taut rim of his hole, and slipped inside.

 _No_ , Eames was whispering again, though he hadn’t the faintest idea if he was doing it aloud or telepathically trying to talk Arthur out of doing what he’d clearly already done. _No, don’t, don’t, **don’t** , Arthur, you sodding **idiot**_.

But Arthur began to move. He switched hands, layering the slippery palm of one over the back of the other, relenting enough to let his cock slip back an inch or so and then pushing it inside all over again. His sighs had kicked up into something more urgent, until he was giving the same shallow little pants he always did when he was getting fucked, and even now Eames could tell he was close from the way his muscles clenched, from the edge of a moan in his breath.

 _This_ was why they needed to stay together, Eames had said it himself less than a week ago, Obviously he hadn’t meant this situation precisely—fuck, he couldn’t even have _known_ —but the idea of keeping each other close in order to keep each other out of trouble, that had been the keystone. Making a go of working as a joint effort, making sure neither of them gave into any reckless decisions the other could prevent. If Arthur didn’t accidentally put himself in the hospital, Eames was going to sign an oath in blood and swear by all of his names to listen to his own advice more often.

Onscreen, Arthur let out a whimper.

With a start, Eames realized that he was waiting for Arthur to reach between his legs and jerk himself off until he came, which was absurd; he physically _couldn’t_ because his cock was inside himself so he couldn’t jerk himself off even if he wanted to, couldn’t touch himself at all, not while he was buried balls-deep in his own arse. “Mary, mother of _fuck_ ,” Eames said, quite succinctly, and Arthur’s voice caught in a growl around his name as orgasm rushed over him.

Arthur didn’t make a sound as he finally let his cock slip free. By this point, Eames wasn’t sure whether he was torturing his body or pleasuring it. “Oh, fuck. _Eames_ ,” Arthur breathed, getting a knee under himself and lifting his arse a bit higher.

Definitely pleasure, Eames decided, staring as Arthur rubbed the thick, rosy head of his cock right against his cleft, the same way he loved for Eames to do, driving him mad with the tease of it before pressing forward and filling him. The video, Eames noticed, had only been playing for a few minutes, which seemed impossible enough that he’d have to check his totem once he recovered his motor skills. If this was all Arthur’s dream, Eames was either going to murder him or dream them both into a marmite factory next time. Nothing rendered Arthur incapable of poise quite like the smell and texture of marmite.

Arthur, apparently satisfied with the mess he’d made of himself, eased everything back where it belonged and actually did it with dignity. There did not, Eames was relieved to note, appear to be any damage. Arthur splayed one hand over his arse, arching his back and spreading himself to show the streaks of come there. It wasn’t anything Eames hadn’t seen before, but he was at least used to being the one responsible for it. “You idiot,” Eames murmured fondly. “You dirty, depraved, perfect _idiot_.”

Then Arthur drew two delicate fingertips against his hole, sinking them in to the second knuckle as he pressed the come inside. The groan he uttered was unsettlingly indecent.

Eames frowned. Being jealous of Arthur’s cock was just ridiculous.

All the same, Eames decided maybe he wouldn’t subject him to murder or marmite after all.

With a sated little sigh, Arthur shifted himself to face the camera. As he moved closer, Eames could make out the loose waves of his hair, the way his eyes were awash with the serenity of the afterglow, the wine-stained apples of his cheeks. He wanted to fit his palms to them, guide their faces together and have Arthur slack and bare and warm against him and not let him loose until Arthur begged for it. _Arthur_ , Eames thought. _God, Arthur, you terrifying little bastard_ , and his arms ached to reach through the miles between them and hold his taut, wiry little body like it was the first time all over again.

Arthur pushed back his hair and glanced down, somehow actually looking coy after the show he’d just put on. His skin was still flushed here and there. Arthur didn’t blush easily, but when he did it always spread unevenly, one of a million things about him Eames thought was adorable even though Arthur hated it.

“Like I said, I can make do,” Arthur spoke up then, raspy, sounding very much like he’d been fucked soundly and satisfactorily. “I can, but I’d rather not have to.”

“I cannot bloody believe you,” Eames muttered, finally letting himself breathe.

The screen went black.

\---

Eames was on a train home in record time.

He left a harried voicemail for Katia, explaining in his most professional tone that he couldn’t help them after all, something very unexpected had come up.

Arthur, the surly brat, still wasn’t picking up his phone. Eames left a message for him as well, but was somewhat less professional about it. “What the hell was that? Please pick up, I’m on my way home, don’t go anywhere.”

He repeated it as soon as he was through the door. “Arthur. What the hell _was_ that?”

Arthur, sprawled under an afghan on the sofa with a book and a bag of crisps, had the audacity to look puzzled. “Oh, you watched it? I was following your words exactly.”

Eames was horrified. “You can’t just—fuck, what if you _broke_ something?” He’d heard it was possible to break one’s cock. Eames was very invested in that cock.

Arthur just groaned. “I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen and haven’t broken anything yet. I was just trying to make a point.”

“You made it,” Eames said. He crossed to the sofa and situated himself with Arthur’s feet in his lap. “Fuck, sixteen, are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Arthur confirmed, looking at him a little smugly, like he knew Eames was just enough of a dirty old man to be picturing him minus a dozen years and change. Young and lithe and amazed at his own capabilities, sixteen and supple as they come.

Eames set the crisps bag on the floor and wedged himself as best he could between Arthur and the back of the couch. “I promise I'll never speak to you that way again. I promise I won't. But please, don’t ever do that again. Or at least don’t tell me about it if you do.”

“I didn’t want you to get trampled by caribou,” Arthur said sadly.

“I don’t want you snapping your dick off to make a point. Jesus, Arthur, I wasn’t even going to say yes.”

Arthur’s legs twined with his under the afghan and his fingers were soft against Eames’s scalp when he kissed him.

“Why weren’t you answering your phone?” Eames asked at last, when Arthur’s shirt had ridden up under his arms and his jeans were open around his hips.

One of Arthur’s shoulders nearly clocked him in the chin. “It’s in the other room, probably still on vibrate, and I fell asleep. And I didn’t really want to talk to you until I knew you’d seen…you know.” The heat of his smile creased against Eames’s cheek.

“It’s a fucking wonder anyone can get in touch with you when they need to.” Eames slid two fingers through the slit in his boxer briefs. “You really should let me check you over, incidentally. We ought to make sure you haven’t done any irrevocable damage to yourself.”

Arthur wriggled against him, fitting a fingertip into the scar on his brow. “I’m supposed to trust you, of all people, to tell me whether everything's still in working order?”

“Who better?” Eames demanded, tugging at the waist of Arthur’s pants.

Arthur ignored him. “Eames, you once went on for two weeks with a broken ulna.”

“That was an unfortunate necessity of circumstance.”

“That was fucking stupid,” Arthur said sternly, “and you know it. Do you _get_ why maybe I didn’t want you on the loose in Greenland?”

“Caribou, yes, you mentioned.” Eames finally managed to wrestle his underwear off his hips. Arthur’s prick was blessedly normal, dark and erect and apparently no worse for the wear at all. “So this must be why your dreams are so dull, isn’t it? Your reality is more than creative enough.”

“You’re not funny,” Arthur warned, but his nails dug into Eames’s nape when he chuckled and ducked to lick at him.

"Well," said Eames, "you don't seem to be in shock and you’re evidently as mentally sound as ever, which I’m not sure is saying much. Why don't you explain how you first learned you had this rare talent?"

“Maybe it’s not actually that uncommon. Maybe most people aren’t ambitious enough to try.”

“I’m absolutely fine with that. Now get your shirt off, I want to check you over. How do you feel about a ‘handle with care’ tattoo as a friendly self-reminder? Maybe for your birthday?”

Arthur snorted, but he did lose the shirt. “Just get me cheesecake.”

Eames paused, still in the middle of mapping Arthur’s inner thigh with his tongue. “I’ll get you anything.”

“I-- _ah_.” Arthur’s body drew taut as a bowstring when Eames sucked a hard kiss just beneath the slit of his cock. “I can’t think of anything to say that won’t sound really sappy.”

“Go on, then.”

“I want you to say shit and mean it,” Arthur blurted, and he stuttered out yearning little appoggiaturas of need when Eames’s fingers teased his legs apart. His eyes flickered open. “Don’t tell me you want us to work together, then run off to negotiate for work in fucking Greenland.”

“I wouldn’t have.” Eames kissed the swoop of his cheekbone, the smattering of freckles under his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

For the second time, he felt Arthur’s mirth before he saw it. “Do you mean it or did you just read in Cosmo that apologizing gets you laid?”

“Why do I even bother with you?” Eames gave him a reproving look. “More to the point, is it going to?”

Like the bastard he was, Arthur just gave a full-bodied stretch and reached for the blanket. “I don’t know if I can handle another round yet. You’d have to work pretty hard to top the first and I don’t really like being disappointed.”

“Please,” Eames said, “ _please_ don’t tell me you can get your own tongue up your arse too.”

Arthur didn’t move a muscle for several seconds. Eames was half afraid he was actually going to say that, yes, he was in fact a disgraced sex god who had been cast down to earth in order to torment mortals with obscene feats of flexibility.

The afghan landing on his head caught him by surprise. “Second round it is,” Arthur said in his ear, ticklish through the crocheted material.

When he shook himself free of the blanket, Arthur was shaking his head at him and failing entirely at looking displeased. “I’m making you work for it, though.”

That part wasn’t a surprise, but Arthur knew it already.

“Better you than anyone else,” Eames said quietly, and reached for him.  



End file.
